


The Best Way Out

by stepantrofimovic



Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Athos-centric, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Destructive Tendencies, fathers and sons, post 2x05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 10:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8797918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic
Summary: ...is through. Set after 2x05. What if Edmond Renard's attempt at Athos hadn't gone without effect? A life-threatening situation ensues, and Athos' friends are confronted with the aftermath.





	

**Author's Note:**

> If self-indulgent angst were a thing, this would certainly be an example. **Warnings** are in the tags; please be mindful that this is a dark fic, and that it deals heavily with self-destructive tendencies and passive suicidal ideation. If you need a summary or anything more detailed, feel free to message me, either via the comments or [on Tumblr](http://stepantrofimovic.tumblr.com/ask) (anon is always on, or you can ask for a private reply -- I don't bite).
> 
> The events in this fic come from the TV series, but I have a feeling that the characterization fits the book version better.

Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.  
He says the best way out is always through.  
And I agree to that, or in so far  
As that I can see no way out but through—  
Leastways for me—and then they’ll be convinced.

[Robert Frost, _A Servant to Servants_ ]

A shout (Edmond Renard, standing up suddenly and lunging at Athos, a dagger in his hand). A gunshot (Catherine, who is walking away from a lot more than this battle). Turning around to protect himself from Edmond's lunge is nothing more than instinct for Athos. Still, as he falls on top of Edmond's body, he feels pain blossom in his side and thinks, _too slow_.

He rolls away and stands up carefully. Someone's hands are on his shoulders – D'Artagnan's, of course.

“Are you hurt? Are you hurt?”

Again, it's just instinct that prompts him to shake his head, no. The boy shoots a meaningful glance at the blood staining his shirt.

“Not mine,” says Athos, and there's the tipping point – that's not instinct any more, that is a lie. Apparently, he's doing this now. Still, most of the blood _is_ actually Edmond's, and the others are too horrified by the scene in front of them – Renard and his son, both crying, and Athos has to turn away or he will do something unbearably stupid in front of everyone – to pay any attention to him.

It doesn't matter, Athos thinks. It's nothing.

Before they leave, he manages to sneak away long enough to at least tie his scarf over the wound as a makeshift bandage. Some blood starts immediately seeping through the silk, but the cut looks clean enough, and Edmond's blade seems to have gone deep without damaging anything vital – at least, as far as Athos can tell.

He supposes he'll find out if he's wrong soon enough.

***

They ride for a few hours in silence. D'Artagnan, as usual, is heading the group – his horse being both the best runner and urged by a more enthusiastic rider than his companions'. Treville is not far behind him. Aramis and Porthos close the group, riding side by side. Somehow, although neither is saying a word, they look like they're engaged in some conversation of their own.

Athos is left in the middle, his attention mostly focused on not falling off his horse every time its canter sends a jolt of pain through his side. He can feel the blood soaking through his scarf and shirt, and he can only thank his dark cloak for not letting the crimson stains show.

The sun is still high enough when they reach the inn at Villers-Cotterêts, but the events of the day are weighing heavily on their minds ( _the villagers at Pinon having to fight for their lives for the first time. Athos is sure he saw at least one kid get shot. He wonders what happened to him_ ), and none of them has gotten a bite of food since the previous evening. D'Artagnan glances back at Treville, who gestures towards Aramis and Porthos, and they all stop in front of the inn without the need to say a word.

Athos is vaguely surprised that he manages to dismount his horse with some grace, without falling or even obviously stumbling. Sure, his vision goes dark for a moment, but when he recovers he is still standing and no one’s staring or fussing over him, so everything must have gone comparably well.

Still, the burning pain in his side is tormenting him, and he's not too keen on the others finding out. (He doesn't dwell on why it is so. The pain is doing a remarkably good job of keeping his mind blank anyway – not as good as a bottle of brandy or two might be, but it's still impressive.) So, when the innkeeper informs them that he has three rooms available for the night (“You are lucky you stopped here so early in the day, gentlemen –” and then he prattles on about something Athos most likely doesn't want to hear), he is quick to excuse himself upstairs. He asks the innkeeper for a jug of water and a basin, and to send him a few bottles of his best wine later. D'Artagnan looks like he's going to say something, but Aramis' hand on his wrist stops him.

Again, he makes it upstairs without faltering too much or falling, but he does have to lean against the wall a couple of times – he thinks he might have left a few smudges of blood on it at some point, but he's not sure. Opening the door with the heavy jug in his hands proves more difficult than he expected, but after some struggling he finally finds himself in an empty bedroom.

He grits his teeth as he moves to shed his cloak and raise his shirt up to have a look at the damage. Both articles of clothing, as he expected, are completely ruined, and his scarf has adhered to the wound so much that he's worried he might have to cut it off. He rips a piece of cloth from his shirt (given that it's now a useless rag, might as well take advantage of it) and soaks it in cold water to at least try and wash some of the blood away.

The pain as the wet cloth meets his skin is so sharp that he jerks and knocks his hand against the basin, sending it flying onto the floor. It clatters loudly, water splashing everywhere. He swears under his breath as he bends down to pick it up.

He barely has the time to realize just how foolish that particular move was before his vision blacks out for good. Then there's nothing.

***

He can hear voices. Someone is moving him, hoisting him up off the floor and laying him on the bed. He thinks he may have screamed from pain at some point, but maybe that's just in his head. Either way, the agony in his side is enough to knock him out again.

***

His body feels hot and cold at the same time. It also feels unbelievably distant. He can hear his teeth chattering, but it's like they don't belong to him. He thinks someone might be touching him, but then again, he isn't even sure that he has limbs to be touched right now.

***

He can hear Thomas, and Catherine. They're talking to him. ( _Something's wrong_ , he thinks dimly. _Catherine's not dead. Yet._ ) He wonders if Anne is with them too, and then there she is, smiling at him like he's never seen her smile since that fateful day.

He's happy, even more than he was when he married her. He's never been happier than this.

***

He's dying.

The understanding seems to drip down all over him, like fine rain on an autumn morning, soaking him over, until there's no part of him that doesn't _know_. He's dying.

He's never been more at peace than he is now.

***

Someone's holding his hand. He can feel it.

He shouldn't be able to feel it, he thinks, distantly.

“He can't do this to us,” says a voice, ragged and broken as though its owner were fighting back tears.

 _Not your fault_ , he wants to say. He struggles to force his mouth to obey, just this once. He doesn't know if he managed to get the words out in the end.

***

“Breathe, boy.” Aramis' voice, coming from beside Athos' bed. It sounds like someone else is sobbing in the vicinity – an easy guess says it's Porthos.

“It must be easy for you,” D'Artagnan's voice answers. “I mean, you can pray for him.”

Silence. “You can pray with me, if you want.”

“No. Thank you.”

Then the fever claims him again, and Athos can't hear them anymore.

***

He's not dying. Not anymore. His body knows it with the same certainty as it knew he was dying before.

Somehow, they've pulled him back.

He didn't want them to. Doesn’t want them to.

He screams at them, thrashes. He cries. He chases desperately after that sense of peace that surrounded him when he thought – no, knew – that he was dying.

 _Let me go_ , he thinks. _I want to go._

***

He's sore all over, his bones aching like he's been beaten and left in an alley after some drunken brawl. (It's happened in the past, of course, but that isn’t the reason, not this time.) But he can feel his body, and he feels that it belongs to him, which is more than could be said of his situation in a while.

He concentrates on silencing the part of him that is hating this. It's far from the first time he's had to do that. He can manage just fine.

His side still throbs with the combined pain of the wound and the infection, but his head is clear, so the fever must have abated. He can feel the sun's warmth on one of his cheeks, while the rest of his body must still lay in shadow.

It must be morning, Athos guesses. There's a bird singing outside, the cool breeze from the window smells like the air in any village in the countryside near Paris does, and he can find no words to express how much he loathes that he can still feel any of this.

He inhales deeply. He must get himself under control before the others –

“He's awake,” says a familiar voice from somewhere to the left of the bed. Athos fervently puts together a string of curses in his head. For a fleeting moment, he wonders how the others would feel if that was the first thing to come out of his mouth.

They'd probably laugh at him.

They'd probably be right.

“I know you're awake,” Treville says, again, closer this time. Athos doesn't know if they're alone, or if any of the others are listening. He answers anyway.

“I know you know,” he croaks, almost surprised at how dry his throat feels. (Then, again, he does remember screaming.)

“I've sent for the others.”

His lack of response, Athos supposes, can be blamed on exhaustion and a dry throat easily enough.

***

There is, one should say, a little less than the expected amount of rejoicing. When Athos finally forces himself to crack open an eye, he is confronted with Aramis' best neutral expression (the kind that usually makes you feel as though the Final Judgment is being administered on you by a particularly wry-witted version of God), a stern look on Treville's part – who, however, doesn't entirely manage to conceal his relief –, and Porthos' face doing such a complicated array of things – managing at the same time to look relieved, concerned, somehow disappointed and happy to the point of tears – that Athos can't help the burst of laughter that escapes him at the sight. Nor can he repress the strangled curse that follows, as the wound in his side reminds him that sudden movements are still not a thing he should be trying.

An abortive gesture from near the window prompts Athos to turn towards D'Artagnan. He looks, Athos finds himself thinking, remarkably like he is the one who was on the brink of death for the last –

“How long have I been –” _dying_ “– here?”

A series of glances all around the room, as though none of the people present wants to be the first to speak. In the end, it seems to fall to Treville, as some sort of command responsibility. In any other situation, Athos thinks, he would be arguing that he isn't their commanding officer any more.

“Three days,” he says. “Counting today, which we probably shouldn't.”

Athos hums in acknowledgment. “I thought worse.”

Aramis' brow furrows deeply and suddenly, making Athos realize that those were probably not the words he should have gone with.

“You wh– He, he thought _worse_ ,” D'Artagnan spits out, his hands flailing as they always do when he's deeply upset at one of his friends. His face, however, isn't like anything Athos has ever seen directed to any of them before.

He tries to rise a placating hand, but he finds out halfway into the movement that he doesn't have the strength yet and lets it drop back on the covers. He opts for a light tone of voice instead. “Porthos is going to make fun of me. Three days for such a minor wound.”

Porthos' mobile face settles at once into just one expression, and it's one of deep hurt. He looks like he might say something – denying what Athos just said, judging from the way he starts shaking his head, but D'Artagnan preempts him again.

He's stepped fully into Athos' field of vision by now, standing at least a step closer to the bed than the others. “Do you think,” he enunciates slowly and deliberately, “that this is something we should _joke_ about?” He doesn't give Athos the time to reply. “Do you really think us so – do you think this doesn't _matter_ to us?”

At that, Athos instantly sobers. “Of course I don't. If anything in what I said has upset you, my friend, allow me to apologize.”

For some reason, that doesn't seem to help either. Instead of accepting the apology, D'Artagnan takes a deep breath, as if he's trying to prevent himself from saying something he might regret, and turns towards the others. “I will be outside,” he says, a barely-perceptible quiver in his voice. Athos can't see his face as he walks out of the room.

The three remaining men look at each other, again. Then Aramis rolls his eyes imperceptibly and says, “I'll go after him.”

“Me too,” Porthos joins him, all too hastily.

***

A few minutes pass in silence while Treville pulls up a chair and settles beside Athos' bed, looking to the world as a man who's drawing upon a lifetime's reserve of patience for just one conversation. It reminds Athos of other times he's been wounded in the past, of the Captain's visits to him then.

“How do you feel?” Treville finally asks.

“I'd say, like I was dying, but somehow I got the feeling that my wit is not appreciated at the moment.”

Just the barest quirk of the lips from Treville. “It isn't, no.”

Another pause, as Athos debates whether to ask the question that's weighing heavily on his mind. Then he thinks again about all the times Treville's stood at his bedside in the past, right from his first months in the Musketeers' service.

“What did I do to them?” he asks. It's D'Artagnan, mostly, of course, but it's not just D'Artagnan. The boy merely has less self-restraint than the rest of his friends.

“You were dying,” Treville answers, bland and blunt as usual.

“I know.”

“Are you aware that you were asking for it, as well?”

Athos curses. “I said that out loud.”

“You did.” And, suddenly, Treville's voice is a lot closer to that of a father talking to a stubborn child than Athos is comfortable with.

“I didn't want them to know,” he says, with a hint of plaintiveness. “I mean, I thought they did. But I didn't want them to.”

“They didn't. They hadn't seen you like this before. I had.”

Athos closes his eyes, shame washing over him at the memory of that time. It had been not much later than Anne had – than he'd joined the Musketeers. People had wondered, after that, why he and the Captain seemed closer than what usually happened with recruits. There had been whispers about it, about the Captain's well-known preferences, until Athos had challenged another Musketeer to a duel and nearly ripped his throat out in front of everyone.

“Athos,” Treville prods, gently.

He just shakes his head. Treville's hand finds his where it's laying limply on the covers, but Athos doesn't return his grip.

As soon as he can speak again, he asks, “How is D'Artagnan?”

Treville's sigh warns him that the answer won't be pleasant. “He looks up to you, you know.” Realizing that Athos is about to say something, he raises a hand to stop him. “Still does.”

“Naive,” Athos smiles.

“Wiser than you'd think,” Treville counteracts. “I've often thought about the way he sees you. It is, I believe, not unlike the way he thought of his father.”

Athos' throat constricts around his next words. “I – I have often thought about how I'd feel if I had a son. How – different it would be.”

Treville merely nods, lost in thoughts of his own.

“And now I've put him through this,” Athos goes on.

“There is still room for apologies, I think. But you owe him an explanation.”

Athos nods, as the Captain slowly strokes a hand over his forehead.

“Rest, now. Your friends will still be here when you wake up.”

His words feel a lot more comforting to Athos than they're supposed to be.

***

He didn't think he would be able to actually fall asleep, but it looks like he did, because when he opens his eyes again the sliver of sunlight coming in from the window has moved, and Treville isn't in the room any more. Still, Athos is not alone. D'Artagnan is standing beside the door, his attention seemingly focused upon examining his fingernails.

As soon as he realizes that Athos is awake, however, he takes a step towards him.

“Do you want some water?”

Athos considers his answer for a moment, but his throat is, unsurprisingly, still parched from the fever. “Yes, please.”

The boy fills a glass from the jug of water on the table. He hands it to Athos, then assists him in sitting up far enough that he can drink without choking.

Athos thinks back to that moment in the cellar at La Fère, so few days before, to D'Artagnan's hands squeezing his shoulders in silent support. The feeling of guilt and shame makes bile rise in his throat.

“What did I say?” he rasps out as soon as the glass is empty.

He wanted to avoid looking at D'Artagnan's face, but when the moment comes he can't bring himself to avert his eyes. The boy's lips turn sharply downward as he begins to answer Athos' question.

“You said a lot of things.” For a moment, it looks like Athos might need to prompt him again. He isn't sure he will find the strength to do that. Then D'Artagnan resumes speaking on his own. “You told us to let you go. Said you didn't want to –” His voice falters and he shakes his head. “We were worried that you might throw yourself out of the bed and – kill yourself. We had to hold you down. You said – well. There were some harsh words.”

“I didn't remember, when I woke up,” Athos says, as gently as he can.

“I guessed so. It doesn't make it easier.”

“I know.” A brief silence. “For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to upset you. Any of you.”

D'Artagnan's eyes are shining with tears. It makes Athos' heart constrict even more painfully. “The Cap- Treville didn't look surprised.”

Somehow, Athos thinks, this part will be more difficult than the rest. “That's because he's seen this before.”

“From you?”

Athos nods.

This time, D'Artagnan turns away from the bed, shielding his face from view. “So this is not – it's nothing new.”

“No,” Athos concedes. “I did not want you to know.”

“Would it have mattered?”

“Of course it would. It –” He draws a deep breath. “You've done nothing to deserve this.”

He can hear the tears in D'Artagnan's voice as he answers, “And you have?”

 _Of course I have._ “Yes,” he nods.

Again, there's a moment of silence, and Athos finds himself thinking about the possibility that D'Artagnan won't answer. He refuses to admit to how terrifying that is.

Then D'Artagnan swears under his breath – “Damn it, Athos” – and turns around. There are, indeed, tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, but Athos' focus is sort of taken away from them by the fact that D'Artagnan has quickly moved to kneel beside the bed, bringing his face level to Athos' head, where it's propped up against the headboard. He takes one of Athos' hands in his.

Seeing D'Artagnan on his knees before him is not something that Athos was ever prepared for. He struggles to turn towards him, forgetting the pain in his side. “No, no, no, wait. Don't – get up, please. D'Artagnan. Don't do this. Get _up_.”

“No. Listen.” D'Artagnan stops him. He squeezes Athos' hand. “This – this is important. You know that I, that we care about you. All of us. Me, Aramis, Porthos. The Captain.”

He pauses at that, waiting for an answer. Athos finds himself unable to give him one.

D'Artagnan's eyes fill with tears again at his silence. “Do you believe me when I say that?”

To that, Athos does have an answer. “Of course.”

“You are my friend, Athos. Never doubt that.”

Athos' voice is hoarse as he replies, “So are you.”

“Good,” D'Artagnan gives him a shaky smile through his tears. Then he lets go of Athos' hand, only to lean forward and envelope him in an awkward half-hug, still kneeling on the floor as he is. He rests his head upon Athos' shoulder, mindful not to put any pressure on his side, and just stays there.

It takes the older Musketeer a while to notice that he's absentmindedly rubbing circles on D'Artagnan's upper arm. “I really didn't mean to put you through this, my friend,” he murmurs. D'Artagnan merely nods into his shoulder. The gesture reminds Athos of just how young the boy is. It makes him smile.

“What is it?” D'Artagnan asks. Athos has no idea how he noticed.

“It's nothing,” he says, but he finds himself smiling again.

“Aramis and Porthos are worried about you,” D'Artagnan resumes, after a pause.

“I doubt that, at least about Aramis. But I will speak to them.”

“When?”

“As soon as you wish.” There are very practical implications to that statement, Athos thinks. D'Artagnan, however, doesn't seem especially intentioned to move.

Athos thinks back to what Treville said about fathers and sons, and finds that he doesn't want to move either.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, if you want to come talk about Athos, D'Artagnan, Treville, Richelieu or anything else, you're always welcome to join me [on Tumblr](http://stepantrofimovic.tumblr.com/). [Prompts](http://stepantrofimovic.tumblr.com/prompts) are (always more or less) open, by the way.
> 
> As usual, keep in mind that I haven't started watching season 3 of The Musketeers yet, so please be careful about spoilers. Thank you.


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